


second word, one syllable

by tuesdaysgone



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Charades, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-19
Updated: 2011-11-19
Packaged: 2017-10-26 07:06:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/280178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tuesdaysgone/pseuds/tuesdaysgone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><a href="http://yobrothatssick.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://yobrothatssick.livejournal.com/"><b>yobrothatssick</b></a>Prompt #60. Frank loses his voice and has to use notes, texts, charades, etc. to communicate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	second word, one syllable

**Author's Note:**

> This is fictional and only loosely based on real people of the same name. Many thanks to [](http://alpheratz.livejournal.com/profile)[**alpheratz**](http://alpheratz.livejournal.com/) for her very, very helpful notes!

Frank staggers out of the bus, rubbing at the pillow marks on his face and squinting as his eyes adjust to the glare off the blacktop. Catering is somewhere. Catering has coffee. Their bus does not have coffee because _Ways_ \- well, one specific Way this time, but this is not an occurrence unique to ProRev and Frank should fucking know better by now. Frank needs coffee or his head is actually going to explode in a giant, slimy mess, and then -

The world turns upside down and Frank lets out a barrage of the filthiest Italian swear words his grandfather was never supposed to teach him. He tries, at least. The only sound that comes out of his mouth is a terrible strangled rasp and it _hurts_ and then he’s suddenly right side up again and on the ground and glaring at someone’s knees.

They’re Adam Lazzara’s knees, and that fucking giant is laughing, and Mike fucking Pedicone is laughing too, leaning up against Lazzara. “Screamed like a girl,” Lazzara says. “That’s for filling my sheets with packing peanuts, you fucking menace.”

“Tried to scream at least,” Pedicone chuckles. “What’s the matter, Iero, lost your voice?”

Frank says, “Fuck you,” or at least _tries_ , but no sound comes out and he grimaces and Lazzara chuckles, too.

“That happens when you suck -” he cuts off with an oof, and Frank pulls his arm away from Lazzara’s stomach, shaking out his fist. He can still fucking punch. He stuffs his hands into his hoodie pockets and hunches his shoulders and stalks away as Adam mutters about tiny guitarists who can’t take a fucking joke and Pedicone giggles.

They’ll have forgotten about it in like five minutes, guaranteed. Frank is just not. In. The. Mood.

“Frank, wait!” Frank turns around. It’s Gerard, standing on the bottom step of the bus where he clearly just saw everything that happened, and looking contrite, which is either because Lazzara just decided to haul Frank around like a sack of potatoes, or because he’s the one who drank all the coffee, or - Frank’s not sure.

Frank glares. Gerard was in on the packing peanuts thing, too, so why aren’t twelve-foot-tall Long Islanders dragging him around upside down? Because no one ever suspects Gerard. He’s got that fucking clueless thing down pat.

Frank has recent personal experience with Gerard’s blank looks, because for the past two weeks, he’s been getting a lot of them, every time he tries to bring it up.

 _It._ The kiss, the one that happened onstage, the one that Gerard had totally instigated for once. And Frank - he doesn’t mind, he had just wanted to ask, okay? But he wasn’t sure, because this is Gerard and Gerard is great at talking about everything that’s _not_ himself, so he’d waited for a while, and when that hadn’t worked, he’d shrugged and told himself this was just what they were doing now, and fucking humped Gerard’s head right onstage.

They’d had an interview the next day and Frank can still remember Gerard’s _face_ , his earnest little “I’d jump too,” and he’d thought _yes, this is it,_ and he’d fucking licked Gerard’s face that night onstage, pushing, and Gerard had let him, but that was three days ago now and - nothing. Still nothing. And now Frank can’t ask, because he doesn’t have a fucking voice.

“C’mere,” Gerard says, interrupting Frank’s thoughts with a little frown. “You lost your voice? I thought you were feeling better?” He sounds frustrated. Hah. Frank’s the one who can’t talk. But this is the kind of shit that happens to him, losing his voice when he’s actually recovering. He wishes he were surprised.

Frank frowns right back and shrugs, opening his mouth to respond and realizing it’s futile and finally just scowling harder and making the motion of drinking something out of a cup. Gerard looks a bit sheepish now about the coffee shortage. Mikey would have shown no shame.

Frank misses Mikey. He misses the comfort that Mikey’s presence gives them all. If Mikey were here, maybe he’d have talked to Gerard already. Maybe that’s a little twisted, but -

He shrugs. Gerard is watching him think, which is also a little creepy, but then he throws up a finger and says, “Wait!” and rushes back into the bus, emerging with a little notebook and one of their ever-present Sharpies. “This should help,” he says with a little crooked grin. He hands the book over.

Frank takes the pen and scrawls, _NOW can we get coffee?_

Gerard doesn’t answer, just links their arms together and tugs Frank off in the direction of Catering, waving at Jimmy and at one of TBS’s techs and making big fanboy eyes in the direction of Brian Molko’s bus. Frank would laugh, but he can’t, so when Gerard looks over at the pathetic creaky noise he does make, he settles for poking his tongue suggestively into his cheek and wiggling his eyebrows. Gerard flips him off, but after a second says, “I’m sorry.”

Frank lifts an eyebrow. _For what?_

“For not interrupting that. It was totally my fault you got caught.”

It _was_ totally Gerard’s fault Frank had gotten caught. He’d been rummaging for his pack of cigarettes to give one to Gerard when the packing peanut had fallen out of his shirt. Gerard had been the one who shoved the handful of foam peanuts down there, too, with a taunting grin that had made Frank’s hands twitch with the urge to grab him.

Now that he thinks about it, fucking Gerard in Lazzara’s bunk would have been a much more satisfying prank. He’d been so close. If Frank had sensed even the tiniest bit of encouragement.... On second thought, it wouldn’t have been a prank at all. Thinking about these things as statements is what got him into this fucking mess.

They reach the coffee setup, and Gerard lets go of Frank’s arm, but starts to pour two cups and doctor them up without even a word to Frank. Frank pokes him in the arm and waves a hand in a way which he hopes suggests _I can do that myself._

“Shut up,” Gerard says, then snickers at his own fucking sparkling wit. “I know how you take your coffee.”

Frank sticks his tongue out and fumbles for the notebook and the pen. _I’m just shocked you’re sharing,_ he writes.

Gerard makes a terrible face back at him, but he looks a little sad around the eyes and he needs to stop doing things that make Frank want to kiss him, like, right now. He hands Frank his cup and Frank trails Gerard through the tent. Gerard hesitates near a table where a couple of the Bled guys are sitting, but keeps going when Frank steps on the back of his boot accidentally. They end up back on the bus.

“Do you want to watch a movie?” Gerard asks him.

Frank thinks for a moment, then nods. _You pick some,_ he writes. _I have veto power._

Gerard makes a thinky face then tugs the pen and notebook out of Frank’s fingers. “You’re going to have to give me, like, parameters,” he says, sketching down the page in that effortless way he has. Frank cranes his neck to see, but Gerard keeps the page turned away until he’s done. “This sucks, I really thought you were feeling better, Frankie,” he murmurs as he draws. “We can get Dewees to cover your vocals tonight, I guess. Here, pick.”

He gives the book back to Frank and Frank sees that he’s drawn little pictures down the page with check boxes beside them. A spaceship, two people kissing, a dismembered arm in a puddle of blood. He takes the pen back and, after a moment of hesitation, writes, _What happens if I check all three?_

Gerard smirks really fucking big and leans down to rummage in the cabinet where they keep their DVDs. Frank takes another gulp of coffee and tries not to stare too hard at his ass. After a moment, Gerard brandishes a movie over his shoulder, and Frank has to try really hard not to make the terrible creaky laugh-noise again - because it hurts - and gives him a thumbs-up instead.

So what if it’s the 3,867th time they’ve watched _Empire Strikes Back_? If Frank is honest with himself - and he’s getting a bad fucking feeling he’s going to have to start doing that more often - the real reason he’s sitting through Viewing #3,867 of _Empire_ is because Gerard will cuddle him. Gerard’s not exactly stingy with cuddles, but two hours is usually way beyond the limit of what Frank can get any of his bandmates to tolerate without the excuse.

Frank’s actually getting sick of excuses, but no way is he turning this down.

Gerard settles in the corner of the lounge couch with the remotes. He automatically pats the cushion next to him, and Frank scoots down to nestle into his side. He’s always warm, and Frank still feels both muzzy and cold.

They usually talk through this movie, and Frank of course can’t do that today, not that it stops Gerard. Frank tries to use the notebook to keep up conversation for a while, but it’s too distracting. He keeps it in his lap, though, and after a while he starts doodling instead.

When Frank gets distracted by the Imperial Walkers - he always does, those things are fucking cool even if they are the bad guys - Gerard steals the Sharpie and starts adding to Frank’s drawing. What had been a random assortment of doodles starts taking on shape and plot, and by the time Ray emerges from the bunks during Cloud City, they have a real crowd scene going on, with a few gratuitous action sequences.

Ray bounds into the room and sits down on the other end of the couch, and Frank automatically tucks his stocking feet under Ray’s thigh. Ray’s every bit as good a hot water bottle as Gerard, if you can get him to sit still. “Is this Star Wars time or art time?” he asks.

Gerard mumbles something unintelligible around the Sharpie cap in his mouth, sketching out some sort of complicated crossbow type device, and so it’s up to Frank to try to come up with some sort of hand signal for “both”. He ends up twisting his hand back and forth like he’s conducting or something.

Ray frowns. “Frankie, can’t you talk?” Frank grimaces and shakes his head, flapping a hand toward his throat. Ray pulls a face and then lets out what is maybe - maybe - an involuntary giggle. Frank flips him off, and Ray reaches out to pat his leg. “Sorry, man. You okay to play tonight?” Frank nods vehemently.

They all fall silent and watch intently as Lando betrays Leia and Han to Vader, then Ray says, “Oh! I found Guesstures in a cabinet in the back lounge the other day, we should totally play that. Frank has an advantage for charades, he can’t mess up and talk!”

Frank snorts and takes the notebook from Gerard, flips carefully to a new page, and writes, _Gerard is totally screwed._

Ray lets out a giant dorky laugh, and Gerard yanks the book back to read what Frank wrote.

“I fuckin’ hate you,” he tells Frank.

 _You love me,_ Frank writes. It sits there on the page in stark black and white for a moment, just too long, and Frank hurries to flip back to their drawing and add a few bats to one of the trees.

They don’t end up playing Guesstures because they end up in a dressing room somewhere instead, playing - or, in Frank’s case, watching Gerard, Jimmy, and Dewees play - _Magic: The Gathering_. Frank drinks about three bottles of water and slumps back into the couch and tries not to wish he was still cuddling with Gerard.

The water seems to be helping. He still can’t produce any sound, but it doesn’t hurt to try anymore. He ends up throwing the empty water bottles at Dewees, because why not? It’s a gesture of love. Most of them get thrown back. Gerard seems unaware of this, just keeping his head down and studying his cards, until he mutters something about a Water Elemental and pushes a card forward as Dewees groans.

*

They play the show, Frank keeping his head down and ripping through his parts and not thinking about how weird it is not to be singing along. He zones out for a while, until Gerard pulls him back in with the intro to Prison, when he starts talking about David Cassidy. Frank snorts. Only Gerard. He’s idly listening, testing his strings and improvising along with Ray, when he hears Gerard declare mischievously, “The biggest difference between me and David Cassidy is, I suck way more dick than that guy!”

He glances at Frank as he says it, just a flash, but enough that Frank _knows_ he’s thinking about what he heard this morning.

Frank’s not sure why he’s thinking about it at this particular moment, but that’s Gerard. And it makes Frank’s pulse kick up further, if that’s even possible, and a tiny shiver run over his skin. If Gerard touched him right now he doesn’t even know what he would do. Shoot sparks like an electric shock in the winter time, maybe. He catches Gerard’s eye as they exit the stage - catches his breath -

He is desperate to know what Gerard is thinking.

It’s dark backstage, the six of them and their techs milling in their sweaty post-show dance. Normally, Frank bugs Mikey while Ray and Gerard reiterate some dead-mic chatter, but Cortez is all business, and Frank, with a lack of grounding, drifts directly into Gerard’s orbit and can’t make himself leave. He’s not feeling electrified anymore, just loose. Any touch would be enough. Gerard’s hand on his neck is enough to make him throw back his head in silent invitation.

Gerard slides his hand down to Frank’s shoulder and hooks his arm around Frank’s neck to keep him close, keeps talking, and they end up back in their own dressing room cleaning up and guzzling Gatorade and joking around. They don’t need Guesstures, because they end up in some sort of weird hybrid version anyway, where Frank starts mimicking Gerard’s hand gestures while Ray leaks high-pitched giggles and Dewees squints at Frank and says, “What are you doing? Is that...a jack in the box, a fishing pole? What -”

Ray and Frank just laugh even harder. One of them even makes sound, Ray’s honking laugh making enough noise for them both.

When they finally get back to the bus, Bob disappears into his bunk with his PSP and Ray and Dewees disappear into the back lounge, and Gerard looks at Frank, who shrugs. “ _Jedi_?” Gerard asks.

Frank nods. Gerard starts the DVD while Frank burrows under a pile of blankets on the couch. It may be August, but the bus is always fucking Arctic cold. Gerard doesn’t come back to the couch right away, but starts fussing with things in the kitchenette. He comes back in halfway through the first scene and hands Frank a mug of tea.

“It’s my Throat Coat tea,” he tells Frank. “Maybe it will help.”

Frank’s throat doesn’t really hurt anymore, but Gerard made him tea, so he’s going to drink it. Besides, he’s totally going to get more cuddling out of this. Except... he starts dozing off, and he’d be perfectly happy to fall asleep here, but Gerard prods him gently off the couch and back into his bunk, and if he had a voice he’d be saying, “No, no,” but he doesn’t. So he goes. Alone.

*

Frank wakes up the next day in New York. Which is almost New Jersey, and he knows family will be at the show tonight, and it would be really nice if he had his fucking voice back. “It would be nice,” he mutters to himself, into his pillow, and then realizes that he _had_ actually muttered it. Out loud. “Yes!” he says, and fucking ow. Loud still hurts.

“Frankie?” Gerard’s voice says from just outside the bunk curtain. Frank twitches the curtain back and peers out.

“Yeah?” Frank rasps. Quiet, but an actual word, recognizable.

“Are you talking?”

“Are you lurking?”

Gerard looks squirmy all of a sudden, and Frank reaches out to grab his sleeve and tugs him right into the bunk. It doesn’t go smoothly - nothing that involves Gerard and bunk curtains ever, ever does - but after a few false starts Frank has Gerard where he wants him, stretched out on Frank’s bunk, nose to nose.

“You can talk,” Gerard whispers.

“I’ve been talking all along,” Frank murmurs back. “Were you listening?” He leans in and kisses Gerard’s mouth, soft and slow and not for public consumption this time, not at all. If it’s a statement, it’s a very personal one. A very simple one. “Tell me you understand - tell me.” Tell me, tell me. Words have failed him after all.

“I do,” Gerard answers. “I really fucking do.” He winds his fingers into Frank’s hair and holds him where he is.

After the show, the green room is filled with Ways and Ieros and Toros, and Frank and Gerard have a silent conversation through a thicket of a dozen family members the entire time. A silent conversation, and silent agreement, piling out of the car at their hotel - hotel night, fuck, are they lucky - and hustling into a room with barely a word other than a goodnight to the guys. It’s Gerard’s room, Frank thinks, but it doesn’t matter.

They drop their bags on the desk and floor and Gerard is pushing at Frank’s clothes immediately, silently, and Frank’s doing the same thing. He wants to see Gerard, badly, even though there’s not a lot of surprise left when you’ve known someone as long as Frank has known Gerard. When you’ve shared vans, hotel rooms, buses, clothing. When you’ve kissed onstage in front of thousands of people. When you’ve kissed in private, drunk or lonely or just plain horny - but they don’t talk about that.

They’ve never talked about it, for as many words as they’ve exchanged in six years. Funny that Frank had never regretted it until his voice was literally gone. “Gerard,” he whispers, helping Gerard tug his shirt off and then going for his belt. “You know I love you, right?”

Gerard’s hands jump a bit, and Frank takes the opportunity to push his jeans and underwear down his legs. Gerard kicks impatiently at his shoes and the restraining fabric, tugging Frank back up against him with a hand in his hair.

Frank moans helplessly. Gerard had better not stop that any time soon. He mumbles that against Gerard’s neck when he finally fetches up against Gerard’s chest, and Gerard tugs his hair again, tipping his face back. “Say it again, Frank.”

“I love you,” Frank says obediently. Gratefully. Hell, he’ll say it all night, until he loses whatever scrap of a voice he’s gotten back. As long as he knows Gerard wants to hear it.

“I love you too, Frankie, fuck,” Gerard breathes, spinning Frank around and pushing him down onto the mattress, tugging at his jeans until he’s free of them, until he’s naked and Gerard can climb on top of him like a very large, very warm, very pale blanket. “You keep kissing me places where I can’t do anything about it.”

“You should talk,” Frank snorts.

“I should have,” Gerard agrees breathlessly as Frank’s hands explore his chest, tracing over his collarbones and nipples and trailing back up his neck to tangle in his hair. “I was too busy letting you drive me crazy. I didn’t know what to say.” Gerard rolls off of him, hand trailing over Frank’s arms and chest, all the way down to wrap around his cock.

“‘I love you’ would have worked. Or ‘let me fuck you stupid’. We could have gone from there.”

“Can we go from there now?” Gerard asks the tender spot below Frank’s ear. Frank nods, and Gerard pushes himself off the bed, rummages in his bag and returns with supplies.

This isn’t how Frank imagined it would be. He’d imagined fast, messy, hard, with an option on post-coital regret. Now he wants to go slow. “Wait,” he says, and Gerard stops, pausing on his knees on the mattress. His eyebrows are just starting to draw together when Frank adds, “I want to suck you.”

That makes Gerard’s face change, going soft and sharp at the same time. But he says, “Are you sure? I don’t want you to hurt -”

“I am really fucking sure,” Frank rasps, pushing him over on his back and straddling his legs. Gerard is really fucking hard and really fucking hung and Frank has wanted to get his mouth on him so many times at this point it’s sort of ridiculous. He starts with his tongue, just tracing the length up to the head, where he circles the crown and pushes gently at the slit, mouth watering at the bitterness of precome. He lets his lips sink down over the head, sliding down as far as he can on the first go, filling his mouth and using his hand to gently cup Gerard’s balls at the same time as he bobs his head experimentally.

Gerard swears and moans in some nonsensical combination, clutching at Frank’s hair and at his own thigh. “Frank,” he says next, and that at least comes out in English. “Frank, I want your mouth. So bad, I -”

Frank pulls up and lets his teeth trail gently along the vein at the underside, licking a broad stroke up the shaft and sucking gently at just the head. “I want my mouth on you all the time.” He pauses, then adds, “I wanted them to be right, yesterday.” He circles his hand around Gerard’s cock, giving it a few hard strokes, licking at the head as it appears between his fingers. “I’d lose my voice for this any time.”

Gerard moans, and Frank takes him back in and encourages him with a hand cupping his ass to fuck Frank’s mouth. Frank just closes his eyes, relaxes his throat and works his tongue the best he can as Gerard thrusts. He goes gently at first, then faster as Frank increases suction and slips a finger back to stroke over his hole.

“Yes,” Gerard groans, hips hitching. Frank pulls off and kisses his thigh.

“You want -”

“Since forever,” Gerard tells him, “But right now I want -” He tugs at Frank’s shoulder until he crawls back up the mattress, pulling him down so they’re pressed together from chest to hips, cocks sliding with a friction that makes Frank pause, and lay his head on Gerard’s shoulder, and just flex his hips for a minute. “Want to fuck you, Frank,” Gerard whispers.

Frank just nods, rolling off of Gerard and tugging at his shoulders. Gerard leans over and kisses him for a moment, just licking along the seam of his lips and then inside. He runs his fingers through Frank’s hair, then pushes up and searches the sheets for the things he’d gotten out of his bag earlier.

Gerard starts with the lube, pressing back between Frank’s legs, and Frank lets his thighs fall open so it’s easier for him, hissing at the sensation of the first finger, gasping as Gerard presses it in and starts moving it immediately. He closes his other hand around Frank’s cock again and begins stroking. Frank tips his head back against the bed and lets his hips lift, lets Gerard move him where he wants him. He doesn’t need to speak; Gerard listens. Adds a finger when he moans, presses harder when he gasps, strokes his cock faster when he pants.

Finally Frank sits up, taking Gerard’s face between his hands and kissing him hard and sloppy, trying not to whine when Gerard’s fingers slip out of him. He rolls them over so that Gerard’s underneath him, straddling his legs and fumbling the condom onto Gerard’s cock with hands that aren’t quite steady.

“Gonna ride me?” Gerard gasps, and Frank nods.

“Fuck yeah,” he breathes.

Gerard reaches for him, pulls him closer, lets Frank settle his weight and position himself to take Gerard in. “Ride me,” Gerard repeats through gritted teeth as Frank sinks down. “Fuck, you feel so good. Think about this on stage - every night -” Frank moans and clenches, and Gerard grabs for his hips, and he takes the last couple inches all at once, freezing when he’s bottomed out, head thrown back. “Do it,” Gerard groans, and Frank starts to move.

It’s fast, right from the start, both of them too far gone to be careful, and Gerard grips his hips and says beautifully filthy things and fucks up into him as hard as he can, and Frank grinds down in rhythm and arches at the hardest thrusts and doesn’t say anything at all, just gasps for breath and cries out every time Gerard hits the sweet spot. He’s being loud, too loud, but he doesn’t care because this is perfect.

Gerard pushes upright underneath him, wraps Frank’s legs around his waist and pulls him closer to mouth along his shoulders, collarbones. Frank grinds down even harder, wriggling against Gerard’s mouth, and when he dips down to suck at Frank’s nipples, Frank thrusts his hands through Gerard’s hair and holds him there. Gerard wraps a hand around Frank’s cock again and starts jacking him fast, moaning against his collarbone. “So close, Frankie, just a little more.” He kisses up the side of Frank’s neck and Frank moans and bites at his ear and the next time his palm strokes over the head of Frank’s cock Frank groans and stiffens and comes all in a rush.

He knows Gerard can feel it inside, too; Gerard groans and tenses under Frank’s hands, rolling him to his back and pushing his legs up and thrusting into him a few more times - hard and frantic, crushing their mouths together. Frank can feel the hot rush when he comes, and gasps hard into Gerard’s mouth, fingers biting into his shoulders, legs tightening around Gerard’s waist. But Gerard’s not going anywhere. He collapses onto Frank, mumbling something under his breath and kissing everything within range of his mouth. As they relax together in an exhausted heap, the mumbled words become clear: “Love you, love you,” over and over.

“S’what I’m saying,” Frank answers, wincing when the words come out in a thready rasp once again. Gerard makes a concerned noise and lays a hand on Frank’s throat. Frank stretches up to kiss him. “Worth it,” he adds.

They clean up lazily and curl up together in bed. Tomorrow’s a precious off day, but unlike the past two days, Frank doesn’t care if he can say a single word as long as he can do this.

*

The tour moves on to Ohio. Frank and Gerard never did manage to leave the bed on their day off for much except showers and room service, but when they finally emerge from the hotel room still attached at the hip and, frequently, the lips, they’re greeted by a lot of non-surprise from their guys and from the tour in general. Lazzara gets all smirky, like he had something to do with it. Frank doesn’t give a shit. He’s got Gerard.

Frank plays the show that night with a giant shit-eating grin on his face every time he catches sight of Gerard. Gerard gets wind of this after a while and plays it up, prancing across the stage with his eyes on Frank the entire time, and when Frank can get a grip on himself long enough to do anything but laugh, he puts his hands up and mimes reeling him in like a fish.

He’s getting good at this charades shit, after all. Gerard wiggles his hips suggestively and throws Frank a wink that the kids in the pit will never see, and Frank spins away to play to his amps so no one can see the goofy-as-fuck expression he knows is on his face.

He has no words for how much he loves his life, so he just keeps playing.


End file.
